According to a sound best described as the Rattling Advance of Doom, we’re going to have to replace the transmission in The Wife’s car. My feelings towards motor vehicles have been well documented in the past. Right now? I’m feeling an awful lot like this:

I drive a 97 Audi A4 that I do not in any way deserve (it was my father’s old car) and I am never likely to own a better vehicle in my life.

I hate it.

I hate that car for the same reason my wife hates watching me sing karaoke. We despise the things that make us feel stupid.

I’m a man. I should secretly yearn for the day my ride breaks down so I can pull it off to the side of the road, raise the hood, and enact automotive surgery shirtless on the side of the freeway, the envy of every male with a still-working mode of transportation.

But every time my car makes a strange noise, or the engine takes an extra second to turn over, or it’s time for an oil change, a small voice inside me whines “please dear g-d let it be nothing”.

My naivety is staggering. I swear the mechanics can smell it on me. These guys could say anything is wrong with the car, and I’d be forced to believe them, because I have nothing to argue with:

“Now, whatcha got here is a dead hamster. I can fix it for ya, but I’m gonna have ta get the replacement from Pete’s Pet Emporium. May take a few days.”

“Son, the issue is yer a damn loser. I can tell just by your radio pre-sets. The car can sense that, y’see, and it just won’t run for ya. Now I offer sessions, to try ta get it ta like you. First thing we gotta do though, is get rid of that top 20 countdown shit, ya’understand?”

The fact is, I’m not an idiot. Just automotively deficient. I would love to write something for one of these guys. They could bring me some long copy, and I’d take a long look at it, suck in my breath, shake my head, and go; “now whatcha got here is a dangling participle. Ya gotta attach that to tha subject or you’ll never be able to go anywhere with this sentence.

If that don’t work, maybe just whack it a few times with a hammer”.

Editor’s note: the one thing I can do is change a tire like a fucking champion. If tire-changing was an olympic event, I’d at least score a bronze. This is the only upshot to having picked up 6 nails in my tires the four years I’ve been driving in Florida. I hate cars.

The following is a real IM exchange. The names have been changed to protect the innocent. And so nobody spams me.

Him: my VW is called Jalapen~aHim: shes made in mexicoMe: ah, so it’s a real VW thenHim: i really thought it was german when i got it. i was all proud and shitHim: and then i find out….mexicoHim: it says on a sticker on the windowHim: “proudly manufactured in volkwagen de mexico”Him: i tore that sticker apartHim: bought an EU Deutchland stickerMe: hahaMe: did you really?Him: yeahMe: that’s so sadHim: it isHim: i knowMe: that’s like the auto equivalent of sticking socks down your gym shortsHim: hahahahahHim: thats EXACTLY what it is

This post brought to you by my car. Which is in the shop. This makes me sad. Expensively so.

UPDATE: Wow. When the woman called to tell me what they found wrong with my car, she suggested I get a pencil and paper. 20 minutes later I was using the back of the sheet of paper I was taking notes on. This is not an exaggeration. This is a horrible, horrible, truth. Seriously, I’d list them all here, but I promised myself I’d cut down on the length of my posts.